


Behind a Mask

by clicky797



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, The Future Past DLC, The Future Past Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 03:27:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6221767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clicky797/pseuds/clicky797
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first body wasn’t him. Nor was the second, or the fifth, or the twentieth. But Gerome kept searching. He was here, he knew he was. He would find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind a Mask

Anyone who went alone to the battlefield at night was a fool. Dark clouds concealed the moon, leaving the stars to shed what little light they could over the sprawled forms of Risen. Their empty eye sockets stared, mouths still open in whatever wide shape they’d been making when they’d fallen to the sword. All along the valley they lay, some missing limbs, some still impaled with whatever weapon had been used against them. 

Gerome could easily have flown over the wasteland. But he made Minerva land beside the first corpse, pulled it up by the front of its armor to check for those familiar features - that carefree grin, those eyes that shone like sapphires when he laughed, the smooth features he’d spent entire nights tracing with his fingertips. He squinted hard in the darkness, his mask obscuring what little light there was, and with a frustrated cry he ripped it from his face and threw it aside. 

The first body wasn’t him. Nor was the second, or the fifth, or the twentieth. But Gerome kept searching. He was here, he knew he was. He would find him.

*

In the midst of a party - a celebration the Exalt was holding where all the old Shepherds could reunite, and their young children could form bonds with one another - Gerome sought the quietest spot in the royal gardens to wait the celebration out. 

“Are you shy too?” a small voice asked.

It belonged to a boy, around his age, with brown hair. Gerome would have left to find somewhere else to wait in silence, but something about the way the boy stood made him think of a deer poised to run, so he took pity on him. 

“No,” he said. “I just don’t enjoy socialising.”

The boy’s hands were twining together, while he looked down and watched them, cheeks flushed.

“I’m shy,” the boy mumbled, only just audible. “Mama says I should talk to more people or I’ll never get over it.”

“Do you want to get over it?”

“Of course. Or else I’ll never be a proper dancer like Mama.”

Gerome could sympathise with this fear. He too dreamed of one day being able to ride his mother’s wyvern with as much skill as she did. To be able to fly, to have a close bond with Minerva, instead of being terrified to even go near her. The boy began to shift uncomfortably where he stood, from one foot to the other. Even that movement was graceful, Gerome noticed. 

“You want to be a male dancer?” Gerome asked, and he raised an eyebrow like his dad always did when he offered Gerome candy and he refused. 

“Yes,” the boy said, and for the first time he sounded sure. “I’ll never be as good as Mama, but I’ll practise every day for the rest of my life if I have to.”

Gerome liked his conviction. It was rare that he met someone who’d dedicated themself to a chosen the path as fully as he himself had. He believed this boy would work hard, like he’d said. He was honest. He knew what he wanted. And Gerome really did admire how light he looked on his feet. That would come in handy on the battlefield, if the boy ever had to pick up a sword. At the very least, he would make an interesting sparring partner. 

Gerome tilted his head curiously. Dedicated, skilled, didn’t crave social interactions. An agreeable combination of traits, all presented to him in this embarrassed boy. And his mother had been nagging him to try make friends with someone besides their Wyvern. So Gerome did something he’d never done before. He held out his hand.

“I’m Gerome,” he said. 

And the boy shook it.

“Inigo.”

*

Gerome had checked all the bodies on this side of the bridge, and still no sign of him. How long had he been out here for? Minutes? Hours? Minerva nudged his back gently with her snout. He knew her well enough to know it was a reassuring gesture. He patted her neck in return, to comfort her. He knew she was just as worried as he was. 

Gerome led her to the bridge so that they could cross and check the other side. However, it wasn’t there. He looked over the edge, saw the river flowing down below. Of course. Only now did he remember what Brady had said when he’d arrived with Yarne. 

_‘... coming from every direction... too many of them... Inigo! Owain! We have to go... damn fool cut down the bridge...’_

Only someone as idiotic and selfless as him would jeopardize their only escape route to save their friends. It was the only reason Brady and Yarne had made it to them in time. Gerome choked back a cry of frustration. _Damn fool_. If only he’d been there. 

*

“What’s taking them so long?” Inigo said quietly, peering out of the window for the tenth time. 

Gerome had never seen him so worried. Normally their visits to each other involved play fighting with wooden swords, or lying together in the nearby fields while making idle conversation. If Gerome was lucky, he’d be able to watch Inigo practise his dancing. And if he felt like it, sometimes he’d take the smaller boy to see Minerva, although he was always too timid to stroke her nose. But even then, Inigo did not tremble as he did now. 

“Stop fidgeting,” Gerome said. “It’ll only make you more anxious.”

“But they should be back by now!” Inigo cried. “Where are they?”

Gerome wondered if maybe it’d been a mistake for Inigo’s mother to leave him at their house. Inigo would probably have been more relaxed if he was in his own home, surrounded by familiar scents and sights. Though he had to admit he was also starting to feel a bubble of apprehension in his stomach. Both their parents had been called away for an emergency mission. The Exalt had given his word that it would be a day at the most, and Gerome’s mother had patted his head fondly and assured him he was big and mature enough to look after both Inigo and himself for one day.

Gerome almost leapt to his feet when he heard wingbeats from outside. Minerva. Inigo was less restrained, immediately rushing out through the door. Gerome counted to ten before joining him. One of them had to be the calm adult here. 

However, when he stepped outside, he wasn’t greeted by the sight he’d been hoping for. It was Minerva alright, but just Minerva. No Cherche. No Gaius. Not even Olivia or Lon’qu. Inigo was frozen and starring off into space. Gerome decided it was best to let him to calm down. He approached Minerva, patting her neck the way his mother had shown him. His hand came away from her black scales glistening with blood. 

“Gerome,” Inigo choked, and when Gerome turned to see what he’d been staring at all this time, he saw the horizon was filled with smoke and flames. A burning battlefield. 

Minerva lowered her head and dropped something into his hand, which still hung in the air numbly. It was his mother’s wedding ring. Gerome’s hand slowly closed around it, while his eyes locked with Minerva’s. What he saw in her expression confirmed what he’d feared. 

“Oh no,” Inigo began to sob. “Oh Naga, no. Please no. Please.”

Gerome ran to the younger boy as he fell to his knees, sobbing brokenly into his hands. 

“Inigo,” he said softly, trying to get him to look at him. 

“No!”

Inigo was wild with grief, swiping at his hands like a rabid animal. Gerome eventually managed to catch his wrists and wrench them away from his tear-stained face.

“They’re dead, Gerome!” he wailed. “They’re dead.”

“Inigo,” Gerome was firmer this time, but still his words had no affect. 

“It’s over.” Inigo’s body was shaking so bad that Gerome was worried he’d caught a chill. “They’re gone. We have nothing now, Gerome. We’re alone.”

“Inigo!” Gerome shouted, and he finally broke through Inigo’s grief. “You’re not alone. You have me, okay? You have me! I’m not going to leave you.”

He held his friend as he cried brokenly, the world still burning in the distance. Gerome would still be holding him when Frederick and Maribelle arrived, gathering up those they knew had been orphaned to take to the palace. They both rode on the back on Frederick’s horse, refusing to be separated, while Minerva followed overhead. 

Gerome didn’t cry, not even a single tear. He had to be strong for Inigo. He couldn’t break down when the other boy was depending on him. He would grieve in his own way: behind a mask.

*

Minerva didn’t even need to be told to fly Gerome to the other side of the valley. She was searching alongside him now, prodding bodies with her snout until she’d rolled them over. When she saw they were Risen, she’d toss them over the edge of the valley. If his heart wasn’t pumping him full of cold dread, Gerome might have smiled at such a sight. 

Why did there have to be so many Risen sent after only four men? Why couldn’t the foul creatures have disappeared when Grima had been defeated, instead of just dropping uselessly to the ground. At least then he’d be able to find him. Though a little voice nagged at the back of his mind. _Do you want to find him? Do you want the last you see of him to be bloody remains?_

“He’s not dead,” Gerome grunted, and there was a feverish desperation to his searching now. “He can’t be.”

*

It wasn’t just their parents who died that day. Ylisse also lost its Exalt, its tactician, its army. It went on to lose entire villages and fields, people and crops swallowed up by the hoards of Risen who stormed the land. Ylisstol was locked down, anyone with any sense taking refuge in the palace. Those who weren’t already inside the city were on their own.

During his time there, Gerome found himself in the company of other children whom he’d briefly met before, but never continued to see like he saw Inigo. Noire, the timid daughter of the dark mage Tharja, clever Laurent, making his mother Miriel proud, Maribelle’s own son, Brady, who understood how lucky he was to have his mother still alive. There were others too, but Gerome didn’t go asking for names.

Then there was Owain and Lucina. Gerome thought Owain to be a fool, watching as he went around and tried to lift spirits with his silly games. Lucina, the oldest of them all, and also the Exalt’s heir, stayed separate from them. Gerome respected that. Let them all grieve in their own way. 

“Ahoy there! And what might your name be?” he heard Owain’s voice booming from beside him. 

Gerome wasn’t going to answer, but it turned out the blonde hadn’t even been speaking to him. 

“Inigo,” his friend spoke.

“That’s a great stance you have there, my friend. I bet you’d make a fantastic sparring partner!”

Gerome tightened his grip on Inigo’s hand, turning to glare at Owain. But the other boy couldn’t see his expression through his mask. He flashed a wide, toothy grin at him. 

“That’s an awesome mask! To scare off the enemy before they even draw their swords, right?” 

Gerome said nothing, watching as Owain’s smile weakened with uncertainty.

“Well, if that doesn’t do the job then I’m sure your gracious manners will.”

Gerome was horrified to hear Inigo laugh at this comment, and Owain’s eyes went back to him, the joy returning to his face. He tried to tune out their conversation as they started to talk to one another, his body tensing every time he heard any sort of joy in Inigo’s tone. 

He was the one who held the smaller boy while he cried at night. He was the one who was going to help him through his grief. He’d already begun to help him overcome his shyness, the only reason they could now engage in this conversation. Not Owain. He had no business finishing what Gerome had already started. He tried to take solace from the fact that, throughout their conversations, and even after, when they were all ushered to their rooms, Inigo’s hand never left his. 

But that wasn’t the last competition he had from Owain. If he awoke late in the day, Inigo would be sitting beside him at breakfast. If he skipped training in favour of taking Minerva for a flight, Owain would be Inigo’s practise partner. And when Owain coerced the children into playing his stupid games, Inigo was always the first one picked for his team. 

It frustrated Gerome greatly. But such jealousy was petty, especially in the midst of a war as dark as the one they faced. Especially once Ylisstol fell to Grima, and the children were forced to flee into the night. He tried to focus on his training instead, to put all of his anger into the swing of his axe, to pretend it was Owain’s smirking face he was aiming at when he threw it at targets. The only thing that would make it worse was if Inigo danced for him, but to Gerome’s knowledge, he was the only one privileged enough to witness that display of talent. 

But still, he wouldn’t be sorry to see Owain gone from Inigo’s side for good.

*

When Gerome finally found a human body, it wasn’t the one he’d been hoping for. Owain lay dead at his feet, face pale, clothes torn, skin streaked with dried blood. His blonde hair was almost brown from the dirt he’d been lying in. There was a wide gash in his side, and a jagged scrap of blade protruding from his chest. Gerome was unable to tell which of these things had killed him. 

He bent down and removed his old ally from amongst the pile of Risen that had surrounded him. He had wished for something similar to this many times over the years, but now that he knew Owain was truly gone, he couldn’t help but feel disgusted by his dark wish. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t find the right body. Maybe it was his punishment for willing this to happen. 

“I’m sorry,” Gerome said solemnly, lifting Owain into his arms. “I was never kind to you. I know you didn’t want to take him from me, only to bask in his company. I can’t blame you for wanting to be near him. It’s all I ever wanted too.”

He wondered what Owain would say to this, if he was alive. Perhaps he had loved Inigo, or perhaps Gerome had only been projecting his own feelings, and all Owain had ever wanted from the other man was friendship. Now he’d never know. 

Gerome stopped by the edge of the valley, where Minerva was still chucking Risen into the darkness below. How easy it would be to drop Owain in too, to ensure his rival was forever distant from Inigo’s side. A new wave of anger sprung inside Gerome’s chest. 

“If I don’t find him, it’s your fault,” he said. “He could have run. He could have escaped over that bridge with Yarne and Brady, but he didn’t. He couldn’t leave you. He stayed for you.”

Gerome’s fingers twitched. 

“I want to drop you. I really do. It’s what you deserve, if you’re the reason he’s dead.”

Gerome turned away from the valley, begun to head towards Minerva. 

“But he isn’t dead. I know he isn’t. So you don’t deserve it.”

 _Yet._ Gerome gave Owain to Minerva, instructed his wyvern to fly his body back to where Lucina and the others were waiting among the remains of Ylisstol. He knew he couldn’t trust himself not to throw Owain into the valley. Minerva gave him a quizzical look when he walked away instead of climbing into her saddle. 

“I’m not coming back yet,” Gerome told her. “I’m going to search some more.”

*

“Gerome? Gerome? Are you in here?”

“No.”

Gerome heard Inigo chuckle as he moved back the flaps of the tent and entered. Gerome didn’t look at him, instead continuing to sharpen his axe. The routine of running the special stone along the edge of the blade at just the right angle was strangely soothing.

“There’s no reason you can’t do that outside,” Inigo tutted. “Maybe even around the fire. With the rest of us.”

“Who sent you to get me this time?” Gerome asked. 

“No one. I came all on my own.”

Gerome was pleased to hear this, though he kept his expression blank. Inigo sat on his bed, the springs squeaking under him. 

“Why did you just get up and leave?” he asked, and he actually sounded concerned. 

Gerome resisted the urge to smile.

“I couldn’t bare watching you make a fool of yourself with your terrible flirting,” he said. “I’m surprised you still bother. Every woman in camp has turned you down at least five times by now.”

“Well, my mother always said talking to lovely ladies was the easiest way to get over shyness.” Inigo shrugged, casually twisting a lock of his brown hair around his finger.

“Oh please. You haven’t been shy for years.”

“Do you really think so?” 

“I know so. The little boy I met in the palace gardens all those years ago would never call Severa ‘cute’.”

Inigo was watching him carefully, trying to draw his gaze, but Gerome’s eyes were intently focused on the blade of his axe. It was definitely sharp enough now, but he kept grinding to avoid the face to face conversation that Inigo clearly wanted. 

“Maybe you’re right,” Inigo said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Maybe I’ve hit the bottom of the barrel when it comes to flirting with woman. Maybe I should start flirting with men instead?”

Gerome almost lost a finger as his hand jerked with surprise. He was sure Inigo noticed his reaction. 

“Great,” he said, his voice no longer perfectly neutral. “I’m sure Owain will be thrilled to hear that.”

Inigo didn’t act surprised upon hearing this. Maybe he’d been trying to steer the conversation in this direction all along. It was no secret that Owain and Gerome had a mutual dislike for each other, though no one else knew for sure what had caused this rivalry. Inigo must have had a theory, though, and Gerome knew he’d pretty much confirmed it for him. The dancer’s smile widened, eyelids lowering over his lovely eyes. 

“Oh, now I understand why you’re so miserable,” he chuckled. “You’re jealous.”

“I am not!” Gerome insisted, but his raised voice and flushed cheeks gave him away. 

“You are! Oh, Gerome. Gerome, Gerome.”

The axe was wrenched from his hands and thrown carelessly aside. Gerome was going to snap at Inigo, because he’d spent most of the night on making it flawless, but then he noticed how close his friend was. He held his breath as Inigo leaned close, so that his face was almost touching his. 

“You don’t need to be jealous,” Inigo whispered. “There’s never been any competition.”

And before Gerome could register what this meant, he leaned forwards and kissed him. 

*

In his ideal scenario, Gerome would have found him before Minerva returned. But he hadn’t. How far could this battlefield stretch? Why wasn’t he near where Owain’s body had been? Hadn’t they been fighting alongside each other? What had been the point in staying this side of the bridge if he hadn’t even stuck with the blonde fool?

Gerome’s breathing was getting out of hand. He felt as though his chest would suddenly burst out through his mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, but he was sure this feeling would put even his strongest sobbing to shame. Minerva touched his back with her snout. Her expression was regretful but firm. _Come_ , he imagined her saying. _It’s hopeless. We’re not going to find him_.

“No!” Gerome hissed at her, pushing her head away. 

He refused to give up. He couldn’t go back without him. If he went back, there would be celebrations and merriment and victory toasts to rejoice at the Fell Dragon’s defeat. He couldn’t face that, knowing that the dancer might still be out here alone. Not even Owain’s corpse to keep him company any more. 

He tried to step forwards, but Minerva blocked his path with her wing. She’d made up her mind. It broke her heart too, but one of them had to be the responsible one. _No,_ Gerome thought weakly, _that was supposed to be my job!_  

“Inigo!” he cried desperately.

*

“I love you.”

Inigo’s voice was but a whisper as they lay tangled together. That single kiss had ignited a longing in Gerome that he hadn’t even known he had. He had peeled Inigo out of his clothes and made love to him, while their comrades sat around the fire only a short distance away. It was their first time, but not their last.

Every night, they found their way together. Mostly in their tents, but sometimes they would flee into the surrounding forests and Inigo would dance before surrendering himself to the masked man. No one knew, though almost everyone commented on Gerome’s improved mood. Even Owain mentioned how nice it was to finally see him smile, and Gerome wondered what expression would be on the blonde’s face if he knew who’d put it there. He was finally coming out from behind his mask. 

Though there was only one time in the day when Gerome truly took it off. After their lovemaking, the dancer would trail his fingers along the lines of his face and carefully take away the mask. He didn’t mind Gerome leaving it on during the rest of their nightly activities (if anything, Gerome suspected it excited him), but afterwards it always had to go. 

“You shouldn’t hide,” Inigo had told him, snuggling into his chest. “Not from me. Never from me.”

“I won’t,” Gerome had promised him, and then he’d lie awake for a few hours and listen to Inigo’s deep breathing, while a tenderness bloomed in his stomach. 

In these moments, Gerome knew he’d face down even the Fell Dragon himself if it meant keeping Inigo safe. But of course, their bliss could not last. 

“We need the jewels for the Fire Emblem,” Lucina had announced to them one morning. “I know where they are, and I’m splitting us up to go retrieve them.”

Gerome felt Inigo’s hand slide into his own upon hearing this. He squeezed back, hoping that they would be kept together. 

“... and Noire. The second team will fetch Sable and Argent, that’ll be Brady, Yarne, Owain and Inigo. And Severa, Laurent and Gerome will get Vert and the Emblem itself.”

Gerome felt Inigo’s hand trembling in his own. But then a steady hand touched his arm, and he realised it was him who was shaking. 

“I will meet you all in Ylisstol,” Lucina said. “We can do this, guys. We can save the world. For our mothers and fathers, and all the friends we’ve lost along the way. Prepare to leave immediately.”

“I won’t do it,” Gerome said quietly to Inigo. “I’m not going where I can’t protect you.”

“This is more important than you and me,” Inigo replied, touching his cheek with a weak smile. “And besides, who says I need protecting? I have been your sparring partner for the last fifteen years, have I not?”

Gerome shook his head. There were so many reasons he could think of as to why this was a bad idea, but he didn’t know how to voice any of them. 

“I will come back,” Inigo promised. “I swear it. On my mother’s grave, on my father’s, on Naga and all the kingdom, I swear that I will see you again. Just don’t die.”

“I won’t,” Gerome promised, and because it could possibly be the last time they saw each other, he kissed Inigo full on the lips, and didn’t care who saw. 

*

“Inigo!” Gerome cried again, and he could feel pressure building at the back of his throat, a lump too painful to swallow. “Inigo!”

Nothing but silence across the dark battlefield. But then, a quiet whimper.

“G-Gerome...?”

Dropping his axe to the ground, Gerome started running.

*

The battle was far fiercer than anything they’d ever faced. Grima himself had been leading the troops against them. It was impossible to tell just how many Risen there were. Every swing of Gerome’s axe found a victim, even when it was blind slashing. At one point, an arrow found its way between the plates of his armour, sinking into his shoulder. He cried out and fell to his knees, Severa shouting his name across the battlefield. 

A Risen loomed over him, sword raised to deliver the final blow. _This is it_ , Gerome realised. _Finally, fate has caught me. I’m so sorry. Inigo._ Gerome thought of Inigo, wondered what battle he found himself in. He imagined him fighting just as desperately as Gerome, because he had promised he wouldn’t die. He’d promised they would see each other again. He would keep that promise. And so would Gerome. 

The wyvern rider tackled the Risen, biting through the pain in his shoulder. He roared and hissed and grunted with effort, ignoring the fiery pain running up his arm to strike down all those who came close enough. And soon, all the jewels were in Lucina’s hands. She performed the Awakening. She drew her sword. She killed the Fell Dragon. 

The Risen dropped in unison with their master, and all had fallen quiet. They’d won. 

“Where are Inigo and Owain?” Gerome heard Laurent asking. 

He whirled to a panting Brady, just about able to get out the necessary words. 

“... the Risen were... coming from every direction... There were... too many of them... I told them... Inigo! Owain! We have to go... but Inigo... the damn fool cut down the bridge...”

“Where?” Gerome demanded, and perhaps he grabbed his friend too hard, because his breath stopped and he paled momentarily, eyes wide. 

“The valley... we lost them at the valley...”

“Minerva!” Gerome shouted, and his faithful wyvern was immediately at his side. 

He climbed onto her back and took off without any explanation. 

“Gerome?” he heard Lucina calling to him. “Where are you going? Gerome!”

*

“Gerome...”

He’d found him. Inigo lay on his back, dazed eyes staring up at the sky, a dead Risen slung across his body. Gerome threw the foul creature aside and gathered Inigo in his arms, pulling him into the warmth of his chest. He knew he had tears of relief running down his bare face. 

“Inigo,” he said, voice trembling. “Inigo. Inigo.”

He felt Inigo’s cold cheek press against his neck, and knew the dancer was crying too. He’d never had stone emotions like Gerome. 

“Did we... did we win?” Inigo’s voice was far too quiet for Gerome’s liking. 

“Yes,” Gerome said, burying his face in Inigo’s hair, even though it was filthy with sweat and blood. “Lucina delivered the final blow. Grima is no more.”

“Good... I’m so glad...”

Gerome felt Inigo sagging in his arms and pulled his head back to look him over. His eyes widened in horror. He hadn’t noticed before in his joy, but Inigo’s entire chest was a mess of shredded gore and clotted blood. The side of his face was swollen from where he’d been struck by something hard, and an arrow had embedded itself in his leg. Gerome felt sick when he saw the pointed end sticking out the other side. Inigo offered him a weak smile. 

“You should... see the... other guy.”

“You’re going to be okay,” Gerome promised him, and he looked round for Minerva, but the wyvern was hard to spot in the darkness. 

“I’m so glad... I got to see you... one last time...” Inigo whispered, touching his cheek with ice cold fingertips. “Gerome...”

Gerome already knew what he was trying to say, and there was no way he would accept it. 

“No,” he said forcefully. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“Gerome I’m... I’m not going... to be okay...”

“Yes you are! Stop speaking!”

Inigo chuckled, and Gerome could hear it bubbling in his throat. Blood was leaking from the corners of his mouth. 

“I... I promised I’d... see you again,” he whispered. “That’s why I... I held on for you...”

“Please,” Gerome begged. 

“Gerome...”

Inigo pressed something into Gerome’s hand. A small dagger. Gerome didn’t understand why he’d been given it at first, but when he realised its purpose his arm jerked away from Inigo sharply. 

“No.”

“Gerome...”

“No!”

“Please... I’m not... going to... get better... Gerome... it hurts so much...”

Inigo’s breathing was strained, his eyebrows pinched tightly together. Pain was etched into every line of his face. Even his eyes swam with it. Gerome stared at the man he loved in disbelief. He couldn’t... no. He couldn’t be the one to... But Inigo was in pain. He could see that clearly now. And even if he could be healed, that arrow through his leg meant he’d never dance again. 

“Gerome...” Inigo whispered, tears slowly rolling their way down the side of his face. “Please...”

He had to. Gerome knew he had to. A sob broke free from his throat as he lifted Inigo to his chest again, cradling him tightly. This was the last time he’d be warm. 

“I’m so sorry,” Gerome whispered. “Oh gods, I’m so so sorry, Inigo.”

“Sshh, it’s okay,” Inigo breathed, and Gerome sobbed harder because he wasn’t the one who should be receiving comfort. “I love you.”

Gerome raised the shaking hand which held the dagger. He positioned it against Inigo’s back, but didn’t press it in. Not yet. 

“I know. I love you too.”

“Then do it.”

Closing his eyes, Gerome pressed the blade through the dancer’s heart. He heard Inigo’s breath hitch, his body tensing in his arms. Gerome held him tighter, trying to smother Inigo’s shuddering with his own still body. He listened for Inigo’s last breath to wheeze out, but it never did. His lover went limp in his arms, arms falling uselessly to the ground. Gerome covered him with his cloak. He didn’t want to see the dancer as a pale, lifeless corpse. He would remember him as the talented, shy boy, who was terrible at flirting and yet brilliant at winning hearts. 

Before Gerome left the battlefield, he went back to the other side of the valley and found his mask. With trembling, bloodied fingers, he put it on. It had always been the easiest way to grieve. He’d never take it off again.   

 

 


End file.
